


Today is the First 87th Day of Your Life.

by Joseph_Anderson (Karl_Josephson)



Series: Welcome To The Agency [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Amnesia, Gen, Graphic Description, Language, Mental Health Issues, POV First Person, Physical Disability, Science Fiction, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9631799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karl_Josephson/pseuds/Joseph_Anderson
Summary: Three months after surviving a near-fatal stabbing, Sean is still figuring out who he is. Unfortunately, the world has few answers. His life before the attack is little more than a few receipts and an empty apartment rented by the week. With the help of a father he doesn't remember and the cop who found him, he's recovering slowly, but steadily. That's more than enough for now.It's not good enough for The Agency, though.PERMANENT HIATUS.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Quick warning before reading: Sean has brain damage that makes him erratic and his focus a little iffy at times. This becomes more controlled throughout the story, but will remain an issue for him.

At twenty-three, I think I died...

There were crickets chirping, a whole chorus filling the night. A gentle breeze carried their song through the trees. The softly rustling leaves blunted the distant roar of a passing car. It all combined in an almost hypnotic lullaby.

Though, nobody rested here.

I couldn't tell if the tremors were from a chill in the air or blood loss. At this point, it didn't matter. Each breath was a slow stutter, careful not to draw too deeply or too quick for the one good lung I had left. Nothing else wanted to work. Even my eyes barely registered under my control. They burned, but I hadn't the strength to close them.

Not that I wanted to. She had deserved better than that. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Sweet Layla. Even as the memories faded, her name clung to my mind. A sad smile, a tired laugh, the patient sigh associated with the woman before me. Who was she?

Eyes closed, her cheek laid upon the root of a Mulberry tree. It had been gently placed there, her dark curls pushed off her face with a tender touch. Her skin was deathly pale even in the hideous orange glow of a security light. He had taken special care to arrange the body on her side, hands clasped against her chest, knees bent. Leaves had been sprinkled around her resting place. For all the world, she could be asleep. If only she was asleep!

I took a shuddering breath, my nose burning with an itch. Was this a sneeze building? Tensing, I could feel the blade sink a fraction deeper in. Maybe this would be the last one.

Another car passed. There was a road...somewhere. Had we come up it?

There was a path around the Mulberry tree. It continued off in the distance. I could see it beyond her shoulder. 

We were facing each other. He had spent some time in our arrangement. My left hand reached out for her, I could see it, but hadn't felt it in some time.

How much time? How long had we laid here? The crickets were quieting down now. It was. Harder to think. To. Focus, I needed to remember. Why were we here?

For a moment, I thought the light had gone out. Was this it? Could I rest now? My eyelids were so heavy, if only I could sleep. Maybe it would come back to be in the morning. Rest. My eyes. I could sleep here, there was no more cold.

“Holy cow.” Those words, whispered, from somewhere above. “What the hell happened here?”

Blinding white light burned my eyes, making me jerk and twitch, futilely trying to turn away. Pain burned in my side where I ground against the blade between my ribs. Had to get away! Somehow, I drew enough breath to whimper.

“Jesus Christ!” A radio crackled. “This is Ohio-six-seven-two! I got a ten-thirty-three! I repeat, ten-thirty-three! Requesting ten-fifty-two, we got a live one on scene!” His radio squealed.

...that was the last thing I ever remembered.


	2. Chapter 1

_People told me my name is Sean. I don't have a reason to distrust them. Hey, they have an ID, my finger prints, an empty apartment, even some old photos of when I was a kid from some guy stupid enough to claim I'm his kid. Pretty elaborate for a ruse. Can't figure out why anyone would want to even if they were._

_The problem comes in when I try to figure out who the hell these people are. Starting at three months ago are the only memories I have. It's weird. I guess that's the word for it. It certainly makes a lotta people uncomfortable. I get the feeling that part's not new, though._

_Maybe it's easier if I got to the start of things. Yeah, that seems like a good place to start._

_Three months ago, cops found me laying dead in a park. With a body temperature of sixty-eight, they said there's no way I was breathing. The cop who 'lost control of his bodily functions' upon finding me would happily disagree. More on that later, though. Fact is, I was clinically dead, and thanks to the miracle of modern technology, I now roam the countryside drinking blood from virgins on the night of the new moon! Or, I got better. It's hard to tell by the smells I emit sometimes._

_There are those who would disagree with that second-to-last part, you know, about being better. Not that they will say it to my face. Being brain damaged means you can get away with rude things like being absentminded with unimportant details._

_I'm not brain damaged. Not really. They don't know that actually. Memory loss isn't a sign of brain damage. It's a selective thing. I can remember if I wanted to, I simply forgot how to do it._

_So, I ended up in the hospital for these past three months. They tried teaching me all this useless bullshit like walking, talking, reading, how to tie my shoe laces without using the bunny-tree method. That one's still rocket science. You always go with the bunny! Never go with the gopher or sad duck, or whatever other method they tried. You get enough of it, you switch to sandals and tell them to stuff the bunny up their rabbit holes._

_A lotta things that should be second nature to me are now difficult. Walking and riding a bike are just the more obvious. Email passwords, using a phone, remembering to check the security code on the back of the credit card before hitting enter when ordering from naughty-nursy for that special lady who sponge bathed me every morning for two months. I didn't even know how to sit up on my own!_

_The best part: I don't know who I am. Not that sweet bump on the noggin you get in the tv shows and all the finer details miraculously goes away or comes back. This isn't a harddrive, there's no reformatting and reinstalling the original factory software. It's all gone. What I mean is, I don't know if I like to wear sweaters or hoodies, or if I was fingered by some stranger on a bus for a candy bar in the tenth grade just because I was bored on a Tuesday afternoon. There's nothing in there. The whole thing was wiped._

_That makes having conversations with people bloody brilliant. Especially the people who were in my life before. They start to share a moment with you, then trail off as reality hits home, again. Those are just the best!_

_The medical people don't make it any easier. To them, everything is a test or a procedure. They don't talk to you without an agenda. Every conversation, every physical touch, it's meant to illicit something from me. Saying 'good morning, doctor shitforbrains' is a test of my cognitive function and memory recall. It's enough to drive a person to...drink? Is that what people do when they need to relax? I wouldn't know, I'm told to relax constantly, but they don't exactly say how._

_Never get stabbed to death in a park, kids. It causes all kinds of problems. People never shut up about it!_

_Even the cops would not let it go. They seemed to think I did it to myself and I was just having a go at them. Don't listen to Bryan, though, he'll lie and say it was part of a routine investigation. He shit himself on the night of his first solo patrol, you know, so what the hell does he know..._

“It wasn't my first solo patrol.” Of course he would be behind me, leaning over my shoulder, staring at the screen. The man's a bit of a stickler, which includes a stick up his ass. Probably what comes with being a cop and all. A slow exhale through his slightly too-large nose showed a sign of impatience. “I was taking a break while my partner got some coffee. You know this.”

Waving my hand in his direction, I frowned at the computer screen. “Sure, sure, Donut Boy. You got busted back to sergeant for putting a pickle from your lieutenant in his wife's sandwich.” Completely untrue, of course. But, it was the first thing that came to mind.

He made a strangled noise like his stomach was trying to crawl out through his nose. That was probably joined by a very attractive shade of red that he sometimes wore as camouflage. It hid that unsightly pale tanlines from walking a beat in that blue shirt those people loved to wear. “I swear, it's like you're sent from hell to make me atone for every sin I ever even thought about committing.”

“Yes, Bryan, the Christian god smote me and left my body in that park because you touched your sin stick and made baby Jesus...” The rest of whatever I had been about to say was silenced by a large, dry paw being slapped over my mouth. It needed moisture, so I shared some of my own. His palm tasted of leather and salt, making me cringe at the awful mixture. Licking had been an idea. I had done it before I even really thought about it. That also might have been one of those nasty side effects of sleeping outdoors they might have mentioned.

“Nice. Real nice, Sean.” Bryan dragged his wet palm over my face, wiping it clean.

I endured the assault with clenched eyes. The saliva was quickly smeared up my cheeks, over my nose, and to my forehead before he let go. Then he wiped the back of his hand over the matted mess they called my hair. Seriously, when was the last time they let me have a shower? I can't remember. It was sometime after the stitches came out, but before they had to go back in again.

Sighing, I shrunk a little in my wheel chair. The quiet hum of the laptop's cooling fan was the only sound in the reception office. It was nice. Hospitals are noisy places. No wonder people die, it's to get some peace and quiet. Even in my room, there was always the irritation of that damn air conditioner they swore wasn't broken. If it made that whirring hiss and wasn't falling apart, they needed to get their money back! Motorcycle exhaust systems would be envious of that clunker. 

The longer I sat there, the less energy I had. Was it time to go home yet? At least there, the only challenge was not being able to leave without an escort. They had this twisted fascination with me about not remembering where to come back to. You go out for the paper and get lost in a strange neighborhood once, and they never let you live it down. Slumping over the left arm rest, I rest my forehead against my knuckles. The desire to bugger off was strong, but this was our fifth attempt. His bosses really wanted this blasted report. 

It was fast becoming a running joke. He would show up all serious, they'd take me to this special room, and we'd sit in here pretending I could type out my statement. They said it was meant to be an exercise, making me do it myself. This was done knowing I had little self-control and tended to focus on whatever came to mind or drew my attention. Any work took at least an hour to type out, more to edit. By the time I managed a few paragraphs, the wind was out of the sails. How can that be anything but a way to punish me?

This is probably because I tended to piss on their shoes when I first woke up. They had to steady me while standing up to pee and complained loudly to all who would listen. It only lasted two days, but they thought it was done out of rebellion or something. There's no memory of it happening on my end, but they said I did it, so I must have. It sounds like something I did when I was a kid. Besides, if they didn't complain, I wouldn't have gotten distracted, and their shoes might have stayed dry. If I remembered, that is.

The hand returned to my forehead, far more gently this time. Resting there, his fingers curled against the shape of my skull. “You're feeling a little warm today. Anything coming up?”

To show off, I took a deep breath, slowly inhaling through my nose. The left side twinged only a little due to the ease from weeks of careful practice. Eyes closed, I exhaled in a single, long breath. There were no sputtering stops or coughs. My throat was a bit dry, but that came from the sterile air. This was nice. Feeling comfortable, I lazed back in my wheelchair until I my head came to rest against his stomach. 

Bryan sighed, his stomach deflating as muscles contracted with the effort. “You're worse than my cat.”

“If it helps, I like to be petted too.” I was bounced a little as he snickered.

“So, you're feeling better then, I see.” 

That brought me up short. There was never anything good in his observations.

Removing his hand, he set it on my shoulder and pushed me forwards to the table. “Get back to writing. We're almost done.”

Being sat in front of the laptop again, I stared at the writing program. Was it still called a document? Elementary school was a long time ago. Really long time ago? I'm not sure, my memory's not what it used to be.

My hands trembled as I reached up to the keyboard. It wouldn't be a problem as I placed them against the laptop. The solid plastic and table beneath helped keep them steady and I began to type. This would be the last of it. Bryan could do the rest, he didn't do much else.

_The police think it was a robbery gone wrong. I think it was a serial killer on his first unplanned kill. I'm alive, after all. We were laid out pretty much according to some elaborate design. The guy took care to get us placed just right. He had nice hands, if a bit cold. He had been very gentle, smoothing the hair out of her face._

_I think he wanted her dead more. Maybe I just got unlucky in being there. He did leave the knife in me, after all, and they say the knife is a substitute for the killer's penis. He probably hated women. The nurses here won't leave you alone when watching Judge Judy, maybe someone didn't leave him alone enough. Maybe they didn't give him enough attention._

_'Ours is not to wonder...' or some shit like that comes to mind. Doesn't matter._

_Three months ago, I woke up dead in a park according to science. According to Bryan, I scared the crap out of him. They rushed me to a hospital and I made it. It took six weeks and twenty-nine surgeries to save my lung. My brain, not so much. The one I got now probably came from some poor sod in the morgue. Not that that does us any good._

_Who is Layla? The police couldn't identify her body, no wallet, no cards, no match on dental or finger print records. All they say they've got is a few words from my dying memory. She deserved better. I think of her face, cold and slack on that root, and all I can think is 'she deserved better'._

Bryan leaned over my shoulder, peering at the screen. Tiny lines formed in the tan skin around his eyes, the blond lashes flickering as he blinked. His lips moved slowly as he read, almost as if he was sounding out the words in his head. 

That's my Bryan, a bit dim. Live up to that stereotype, Bryan, you be the best blond you can be!

As if sensing my thoughts, his eyes slid over to glance at me out of the corner. Exhaling through his nose, he shook his head once, then went back to reading.

There was still a little typing left in me.

_Weeks spent in therapy have improved my motor skills, but not perfected them. Walking without a support is still impossible. My hands shake, which makes jerking off interesting. At least wiping my ass doesn't take much coordination. Reading requires intent. Without wanting to, I can't focus long enough to write these words. Fa-So-La-Tea for two._

Pulling me back, Bryan cupped me upside the head. The twitch of his lips said it wasn't in anger, though. “I want you to notice something and then we're done.” His left hand came up to point at the screen near the bottom. “You've used an unusual word. Sod. I've seen it, heard it before, but it's not normal conversation.” He tapped other places on the screen. “There's other selections too. It's a blended syntax and vocabulary.”

Head cocked, I raised one eyebrow at him. That's all I needed to say about that.

He sighed again. “You're using non-American English and American English. That shows signs of long-term exposure to foreign speakers.” Frowning at the screen, he scrolled through the entire document. “Where have you been these past few years?”

“You tell me, Mr....” I trailed off with a sigh. Who was famous for their language skills? Sherlock Holmes? The man seemed like the right one, but then again, I wasn't certain. Elementary School, my dearest Emma Watson! No idea who those people were, but I'm pretty sure someone would think it funny if I told them.

That was a theme I noticed. I was quick to make jokes, do something disarming, or try to get people to relax. They were easier to deal with that way. Frankly, it was exhausting. I'm not one to do something for the sake of doing it. These...things? These things just happen.

Sudden pressure behind my forehead made the skin leading up to my scalp itch. Rubbing at it with the heels of my palms, I scrubbed the skin red. “There is no control. My mind, it's like a broken sponge. It absorbs, but squeezing it doesn't give you the right juice. Not aphasia. I know the words. But mental confusion.”

“That's okay, Sean. You can stop trying now.” But he didn't try to stop my actions. Instead, he closed the laptop and stepped back. “I'm going to call the nurse so she can take you back to your room. Frank's probably done flirting with Delores by now.”

All I could do was nod and not think about that last part. It helped to rub at my forehead, firm strokes, up and down. This was quite successful. I barely even noticed the orderly enter and take the handles of my wheelchair.

He and Bryan whispered something as I was spun towards the door.

Forcing myself to stop the repetitive stupidity, I managed to glance back at Bryan. There were dark patches under his eyes, frown lines were already forming across his forehead. Looks like he was back to his favorite hobby of wandering the first floor, staring out the windows until dawn.

Bending towards the table, he caught me looking. Pursing his upper lip a little, Bryan snorted through his nose. “Take your time getting changed, don't rush it. I'm gonna be a bit.” Of course he would. He was here in an official capacity. The station probably assigned him to the hospital patrol route thanks to his undying love affair with this place.

“Don't get caught jerking off again. They won't make the nurses delete the vid twice.” I wanted Bryan to come with us, but the editing on my statement needed to be done. He'd more than likely be here tomorrow before physio, at least. That would spare me the confrontation waiting in my changing room then, but now I was completely defenseless. Where was a cop when you needed one? A real one. Bryan didn't count. He shit himself, after all.


	3. Chapter 2

They said I died on the table no less than four times. A nice, even number, even if I do say so myself. I got the chest scars to prove it if I ever needed to settle a bet. Tiny things, really, to insert a probe to stimulate the heart in afib. They were trying to get the rhythm stable. Instead, they zapped the little bugger right out of existence. Funny, that.

That's when they got technical and started chest compressions. Must have let some ham-fisted orderly do it. Those fuckin' bruises lasted two months!

Not for nothing, though, I am here after all. Here being a suburb of some town on the east coast of some large body of water. I'm not sure if it's the ocean, a lake, or just a local fishing hole. Until everything's healed up, I'm not allowed to go anywhere near it. The doctors have this real sick fetish about keeping me healthy; it's a point of contention.

Point of all this rambling is that I didn't come away from it unscathed. In fact, more damage was done by their efforts to save me than the knife sticking out of my side. Being clinically dead means the brain suffers a lack of oxygen. That's one of those 'essential to life' things some people require.

I might be one of those.

Really, I should be up and moving by now without much assistance. The last infection was cleared up weeks ago. Yet, here I sat in a wheelchair, watching the curtains on my own private 'room' swish as someone passed in the hall. On my good days, it was entirely voluntary to sit here. Of course, by then I would have already been changed into my street clothes, not waiting for assistance.

That's not a joke. When you can barely walk most of the time, putting on jeans and a button-up is too much effort. My everyday clothes are a shirt, sweats, and a hoodie, even on the warmer ones. Add in this stupid skullcap Frank makes me wear and it completes the homeless chic ensem. It's all to conserve body heat. They say I lost a lotta muscle mass, especially in the lower left back region for some reason. I can't imagine why.

Someone whispered in the room next door. Nothing loud enough to be heard properly. Probably just a casual conversation. You could have those here. 

This really wasn't much of a room, calling it that was being overly generous. More of a half-room, half curtained alcove. There was a bed in the back with a small monitor that served as a tv and a screen for patients to see whatever their docs wanted them to. A chair took up some room to the right, a stool for the doc or therapist, and a small tree for my clothes. I could stay here for some time if necessary. It was a long-term care facility, after all. Well, really more of a doggie daycare for the disabled.

A twitch in my right temple set off a nervous energy surge through my muscles. I had to rock a little, taking a deep breath as another spark just under the skin built up.

Mini-panic attacks is what the psycho doc called them. Nothing full-blown, but it set my heart racing, my skin to itching with a need to move. It was common in all sorts of traumatic events. Brain damage can cause them too. That one was really fun to learn. It's always nice to know that these god damn things might never go away and I can't control them.

“Cute. Now all you need is a bottle and to rave about the martians radioing the CIA, and you've got the look down pat.”

Clenching my jaw tight, I stared straight ahead. There was no point in responding when he got like this. With Bryan, at least there was some fun in it for me to let the freak flag fly. Not with Frank, though, he didn't like fun. He and fun were still in litigation. Thumping a fist against my chest, I tried to resist the urge to rock harder. It didn't work.

A heavy sigh was all Frank offered. Tugging the curtain back into place, he came around to sit on the stool. The black wool of his jacket was adorned with red buttons today. That meant today was a Tuesday, he would have been down at headquarters filling in reports. This was going to be a fun ride home.

Raising one manicured hand, he gestured at the length of my body, folded as it was in the wheelchair. “You look tenser than usual. I take it this wasn't one of those walking therapies?”

Shaking my head, I kept my eyes on his jacket. “Bryan is here.” He was going to find out anyhow.

“Son of a...all right.” Adjusting the collar of his jacket, Frank sat back a little on the stool. He swayed from the effort, then the straightened up. There was a hitch in his next breath before he snorted. “Shoulda sat in the chair. I'm not as young as you kids anymore.” A bit of an understatement. He would be turning seventy-four soon. Not sure on the exact date. The man was as vague about his birthday as the sky was blue.

Bryan would know.

I was suddenly struck with the urge to see his face. Glancing up, the first thing I noticed was the dazzling white of his grin. It was only a bit strained, he was making an effort today. The strain of work might have been all right. Don't get me wrong. Frank's good at his job, maybe the best in the city. But, until three months ago, that's all he was.

There's no memory of Frank before. Another of those selective things. I choose to believe Frank didn't exist until three months ago. Removing the backstory makes all those forlorn expressions less tragic.

For the longest time, I thought he was some kind of old man who liked to visit sick people in the hospital or a reporter. The first's not uncommon, it's just usually fundies or the lonely folks who take the bus as part of their volunteer service. If you don't put a stop to that, though, you meet a lotta unusual people. Most of whom should be in another type of hospital. They liked to talk about inconsequential shit. Not Frank. Frank doesn't like to share what he knows. Everything with him is an interrogation from years of habit, right down to what to have for dinner. I was this close to having him banned until he figured out I didn't know anything, wasn't being obstinate. Then he revealed our relationship, and to say I was thoroughly unprepared's a bit of an understatement.

“Hey, junior, that's a lotta smoke coming from between your ears. What're you thinkin' about?” The skin of Frank's cheeks had become sallow the past few weeks. He normally kept an appointment with a tanning salon and the fading color wasn't pretty on his softening features. At least he managed to keep himself clean and neat. His hair and nails were always immaculate, the suits pressed, if five decades out of date. A tiny golden shield pin, a retirement gift from the union, rest in his lapel. Hunched forwards enough to keep his balance, he studied me with a critical eye. “You're not letting him keep you too busy, are you? If he's overworking you, I'll speak with his captain, and he'll be back handing citations for dog shit in the park!”

Cocking my head, the smile was wide and genuine. If there was nothin' else my old man was good for, he was great at being over protective. “Nah, just getting the damn statement finished. They've been riding his ass about making up excuses just to visit me.” Which was the complete and honest truth. “I think he's about to pop the question.” Which was a lie that I just made up.

Frank froze. Eyes wide enough that they were in danger of falling out, he went pale for all of two heartbeats. Then the color rushed to his cheeks and he was throwing himself off the stool. “I'll kill that...”

“Hey! I'm only foolin'!” I had to slam myself forward almost out of the wheelchair to catch his coat sleeve. “It's a joke! I'm jerking your arse!”

He made it two steps before pausing. Back rigid, Frank took a deep breath before looking over his shoulder at me. Long nose sticking out like a mug handle, he glared at me through narrowed eyes. The lines around is face were deeply contorted as he shook his head. “One of these days, you lil putz.” Jerking his arm free, he shrugged his jacket back to rights. Then he reached out and flicked me between the eyes.

{@}

One of the first things Frank told me, after the accident of course, was never date a cop. Forget about looking at them. If I even thought about marrying one, he was going to make sure they took me back in the operating room and scrambled what's left of my brains. Cops are nothing but trouble. They spend so much time on the job, they forget they have someone at home. 'More families have been broken up because two were hookin' up.' He ought to know, he spent fifty years being one.

Not that he and my mother were married. He was smarter than that, at least, according to him. She was a work colleague, an insurance investigator on a series of possible arsons. Without her help, they never would have solved it. That's the only nice thing he's had to say about her.

“What the hell am I supposed to say about a woman that walked out of my life after fifteen years, taking our son with her?” Sipping from his travel mug, Frank kept his pale blue gaze on the television screen. He had muted it fifteen minutes ago so we could talk. Now, his finger lingered on the volume control. “Sure, there's other things that were good, but that's not the kinda things you talk about with your children!”

I had only an inkling of what he might be talking about. The television was someone descriptive back at our apartment, but I wasn't allowed to actually watch those very informative programs. Frank was a bit of a prude, he had a child lock on all the 'good channels' as Bryan liked to call them. When you can't figure out how to work a mobile, child locks are the work of ancient black magic!

The air vent overhead kicked on as cool air sent a shiver down my neck. Grabbing Frank's wrist, I held it up to check the time.

With a patient sigh, he rolled his eyes before going back to the tv.

The big hand was on the three, and the little hand was on the...four, five, six...Six! It was three-and-a-half. Bryan had been back there for quarter the hour. Exhaling with a loud putter, I released Frank's wrist. “He's making stuffed cabbage rolls for dinner. They're in a crockpot back home, he said.”

“Damn Irish.” Frank shook his head with a tiny smile. “My mother used to make that crap. You wouldn't remember her, she died about two years after you were born.” He shot me a look from the corner of his eye. “As I said, you wouldn't remember her, even if you could.”

“Ha-ha, Frank.” Something in my chest clenched at the way he closed his eyes. He did it every time I called him that. I know he wanted me to call him dad or pop, or something like it. To me, he's just Frank. Bryan's Bryan, and he's Frank.

We sat in silence after that for the next several minutes. With the mute on, some of this daytime crap wasn't half bad. I could almost make up the dialogue in my head. Probably wouldn't be half off. Once you've seen a week of it, you're an expert.

After the show went to commercial, Frank shifted, exhaling like it pained him. “Your mom's a redhead.” When I looked to him with a raised eyebrow, he gestured at his head, swirling it around. “A shade or six lighter than an old penny, that's where you get it. It's dark now, but it'll get darker before going silver. By the time she left, even in the right light, you couldn't tell she wasn't a brunette, albeit an aging one.”

My hand went automatically to my hair. The matted curls had definitely seen better day. They said it looked like a mullet when I didn't wash it thoroughly. Not sure what that means, I'm afraid to ask if those ignorant grins meant anything.

“I don't know why she left, she didn't leave a note or anything.” Apparently the conversation wasn't over. He frowned, staring off into the distance now. “I came home one day, the apartment was half-empty. That wasn't the only thing, the joint account, the savings bonds, our storage unit, all her part of our lives. She took everything that belonged exclusively to her, no more, no less.” Frank's eyes took on a glassy tinge as he spoke. This happened a lot in our conversations. “Well, no less. The last ten years didn't belong solely to her.” Despite the even tone, there was an edge to his words.

“But, she took that too,” I finished for him. 

With a blink, he gave a short nod. After that, he hit the volume button and turned it up enough to drown out any polite attempts at conversation.

For him, it was ten years without me in his life. I can't imagine how hard it would be not knowing him your entire existence.

I looked to the curtains, willing Bryan to walk through them. Didn't work. He had this stubborn streak about ignoring my mental commands. We'd have to work on that. Maybe I should try using cookies in his training instead of dog treats. Either way, the sooner he got here, the sooner we could sign out and go home. His home, Frank's, didn't matter.

When Frank's hand settled on my shoulder, I rest my cheek against it without thinking.


	4. Chapter 4

“There's always one, and if you're a cop long enough, more like a couple.” Frank's dry whisper was barely loud enough to be heard over the hiss of an air vent. “The thing is, you gotta learn not to let it consume you. They preach detachment at the academy, but you can't really know until it actually happens.”

Wha...

“I don't know if you're right. May seem more than that. May not.” That was Bryan. “I can't really explain it.”

Were he and Frank talking? My eyelids felt too heavy to open. Trying only made the eyes burn. It was better to keep them closed. Everything felt too heavy. Something was holding me down. Even drawing a breath was too hard. I had to let it happen naturally.

Slowly, very slowly, my chest filled with air. Lips parted, they dried out with each inhale. I could breathe and hear, but little else.

“Sounds like you hit the conflict of interest nail right there on the head, kid. You've become too attached.”

My entire body felt stretched out, laid here comfortably, but unable to move. The weight pinning me covered most of my body, radiating heat. A heating blanket? Was I in bed? At home or in the hospital? The noise of the vent was the same thanks to that new air unit Bryan installed above the window.

Bryan sighed. “Thing is, he needs me.” He moaned a little, drawing it out. “Not me! I mean, he needs someone. Like today, I just happen to be in a position to help.” When he spoke, his voice cracked, rising in pitch. He was twenty-one, but still sounded like a teenager at times. It fit, his balls only dropped last year if you believed half the stories his partner told. “It's actually kind of nice. Not as needy as a kid, not as messy as a cat.”

I think I know what happened. Weeks of experience combined with the clues meant I could make an educated guess. My blood sugar dropped and I probably crashed back at the hospital. I don't remember passing out, but that doesn't really mean anything. Not eating properly today combined with overexerting myself and I was bound for a crash. Hypoglycemia sucked.

When my would-be killer stuck me with his phallic-metaphor, he nicked my pancreas. Most times it worked properly, some of the time, not so much. Two of my early surgeries had tried to figure out what was wrong before they woke my ass up from the medical coma. They settled on scar tissue and organ damage.

I was going to make someone a real catch someday. If I didn't die from some unknown complications before then. They were finding more of those all the time. 

“Sick, kid, real sick.” Frank was laughing? Their sense of humor was mystifying. “If I didn't already know you had a cat, I might suggest getting a pet. Though, I can understand the appeal. Sometimes I want to stab him with something sharp myself.”

It was Bryan's turn to laugh, that half-dry, half-snorting thing he liked to do that made him sound like he got pepper up his nose while sitting on a knitting needle. That latter one was far more amusing, especially since it happened to him. Couldn't have happened to a nicer wanker.

“You can stop pretending to be a asleep, I saw your toes moving.” The admonishment came with a slap to my toes. Frank was always annoying like that. “What the hell did I tell you about skipping meals? Snacking on peanut butter crackers between doesn't count!”

Yeah, right there, guilty as charged! Sugar Shock.

Yet, I wasn't pretending anything. Opening my eyes still felt like quite the chore. Moaning softly, I wiggled my toes at him. It hadn't been intentional before. Now, though, that was pure spite. 

Frank's sigh was good enough for words. He was 'concerned' about my health. Can't have that.

“Don't think this gets you out of those cabbage rolls.” And, of course Bryan had to remind everyone he still existed. 

Groaning, I exhaled slowly in his general direction. I'd fart, but even that felt beyond my abilities at the moment. 

“You rest up. We'll talk more about this later.” Groaning, Frank used my bed to brace himself. “Come on, kid, let's leave the little putz to his ignorance induced coma and go get a beer.”

“Sounds good to me. Later, Sean.”

Wait, that's it? They're leavin'? Some best friend he turned out to be! I had half a mind to go back asleep and ignore them from now on. You wait and see, Bryan! 

{@}

I don't know how much time passed, how often I slept, how often I drifted. It's hard to tell when you're drugged into the land of makebelieve. There really was no medical reason to do it. The nurses here simply hated me when I was feeling off. I tended to ramble. Nobody likes a talkative git with no internal filter.

Okay, maybe a mild sedative mixed with the sugar shot helped settle my system better. That might have been what happened. It wasn't exactly a fair situation, though, these nurses were evil. I could swear I saw one taking an incubator from the maternity ward to the cafeteria when I was transferring out of the CCU. It was hard to tell. I was under the influence of something then, too.

You never know with these people. They liked to rule your life. Every aspect of it had to be approved or they didn't let it happen.

For instance, I wasn't back home with Frank right now. Wasn't staying with Bryan tonight either. They didn't like it when I decided what to do with my own body, like forget to eat properly. It tended to make them cranky and stabby. My hip probably looked like a particularly creative tattoo right now. The good thing was, I couldn't feel much below the waist thanks to whatever they had me on.

Must have been an especially bad episode. At least they didn't cancel the series.

I could see fine in the dark of my room. Dull white light made the curtains glow softly. Night in the long-term ward was unusually quiet. You expected to hear maybe a few tvs playing, someone talking. You spend enough time in a place, you learn to 'live' in it. Not here. People either went home or they went to sleep until the morning duty shift change.

This calm was actually kinda nice. It gave me a chance to relax with my thoughts. Where was I? Where was I going with my life? How long did I have to live given the damage to my system? You drop a laptop, it's not going to work forever. You stab an asshole, his shit's going to fallout eventually.

They said I was going to get better. The more I worked at it, the longer my life expectancy and better the quality of that life. My question is, what life?

Who was Sean O'Brien? It's not a lite question. The problem is, there was no answer. Nothing.

My foot itched, but I didn't want to scratch it. Rubbing it against the bed only made the irritation shift.

When Bryan found me, he said there was a wallet in the bushes behind me. It wasn't mine, but it had my ID in it. There was six others in it as well. He wouldn't tell me whose they were, only that the people they belonged to didn't exist. A facial recognition search revealed no matches. The department kept expecting a visit from 'the feds', as he liked to put it, but no one came forward.

It wasn't much, but the ID was the only place they had to start. The address was listed as somewhere in Chicago, an old flophouse, recently updated for fire codes. According to the rental agreement, I had lived there for the past six years. Frank took pictures when he and Bryan went to investigate last week. There were hospital corners on the mattress and a hotplate sitting on the new stove. Apparently, I didn't live there very much.

I had no job listed on the agreement and the government said I was self-employed. The diploma on the wall was a GED from two years ago. I paid taxes last year, got a modest return. There was no bank account or phone. I did have a pay-as-you-go credit card that was conveniently missing, but completely spent. 

Or, should I say, Sean did? None of this sounded familiar to me. Far as I knew, this was all just some elaborate ruse. Funny thing was, there was no one to backup any of these things. There were no friends, the neighbors barely met him, there were no co-workers.

Even Sean's mother was gone. Not dead, just, not there anymore. Bryan found her in a nursing home not far from the flophouse Sean called home. She had been there for the past six years. They said it was a major stroke, it took everything that had made her Kathryn.

I knew the feeling.

I was in no hurry to confirm any of this. Physically, mentally, financially, didn't matter. Hell, the only reason I got out of bed in the morning is Frank's very real threat of ice water in my crotch. No foolin'. I thought it a medical precaution that he put a bed liner on my mattress the first night 'home'. The crazy old bastard made good on the promise to my docs of not letting me get 'complacent' or 'lazy' about my recovery.

That's not the real reason, though. What if this is it? What if all those barebone facts about Sean's life, my life, was all there was? It's not hard to work yourself to death if you've got nothing else to live for. For god's sake, he didn't even have a television!

What I had here was good. It was almost nice. Why rock the boat? Of course, I would have to check it out eventually. The flat wouldn't be held on forever, even with Bryan paying the rent for me. Chicago was...home? There was something there to see. Maybe go see this Kathryn woman. I definitely won't be bringing Frank along for that one.

Yawning, I tried not to break my jaw. That was enough ruminating tonight. Time to sleep. Maybe Bryan would be here to bother when I woke.

**Author's Note:**

> All works are copyright Joseph Anderson. Do not repost or print without expressed written permission.


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